


Punch for New Year's

by gardnerhill



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Community: watsons_woes, Drunkenness, Gen, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 09:26:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stamford, Schmamford.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Punch for New Year's

**Author's Note:**

> For the 2011 July Watson's Woes Prompt #19: 
> 
>  A Foggy Day (in London Town)
> 
> I was a stranger in the city  
> Out of town were the people I knew  
> I had that feeling of self-pity  
> What to do? What to do? What to do?  
> The outlook was decidedly blue  
> But as I walked through the foggy streets alone  
> It turned out to be the luckiest day I've known
> 
> A foggy day in London Town  
> Had me low and had me down  
> I viewed the morning with alarm  
> The British Museum had lost its charm  
> How long, I wondered, could this thing last?  
> But the age of miracles hadn't passed,  
> For, suddenly, I saw you there  
> And through foggy London Town  
> The sun was shining everywhere.

The weather was clear and cold for New Year's Day – or so it would seem to the clean, sober, industrious working folks of the City. John Watson saw only fog. 

It could have been caused by drink, from the night before and again that morning; it might have been from the blow to his head from the pimp's cane after the whore had tried to rob him and he'd wound up in close quarters with both of them; and right now it emanated from the near-visible stench rising from the close-packed, sweating men in the Punchbowl where the last of his pension had just dribbled away like a syphilitic's piss. 

But it was warmer than the outside air, and no respectable establishment would allow him to cross their doorway in his current state. His only other alternative would have been to return to the hotel room he could not afford and stare at the bare silent walls; here, at least, amid the shouting, cursing masses of men he could fancy himself once again among his old regiment, or at a wild stag party. He had one or two more bouts he could see before the bookie would notice he'd stopped placing bets and would toss him out. 

The stocky bastard who'd wound up fighting better than Watson had wagered he would swaggered (or staggered) out of the arena, after collecting his grimy shirt and a fistful of banknotes from the bookie ( _his_ money, Watson thought dully), and took up a bottle of ale as part of his payment. Swigging half the bottle's contents, the man pulled up short; only then did Watson blink his way free of the fog to realise that he stood between the man and the doorway. Half-naked, unshaven, filthy with sweat and blood and dirt from his bout, hair a wild mess, shorter than him, the man looked more like a feral sprite than a boxer. Most likely a longshoreman, or a local stevedore who didn't get enough excitement lifting parcels all day. Watson waited for the man to curse at him and shove him out of the way.

"You're just back from Afghanistan, I perceive," the man said, in a refined accent that did not belong in this place. "Bad leg injury. That is not your cane, however, it's an inch and a half too short. The head perfectly matches the shape of the bruise near your temple. You've won a rougher fight than I did today." All this, in eleven seconds. 

Watson blinked, and stared at the man, his mouth agape. A wind whipped through his mind, blowing away the fog. For the first time he stared down at the trophy he'd wrestled away from the pimp that he'd been carrying all day without thought. 

"And you need this more than I do," the man said, and stuffed the banknotes into an inner pocket of Watson's waistcoat in one fluid move – his hand had landed exactly where the pocket had been sewn. "My brother will roll his eyes but send me a bit of money so I can make the rent this month, says it's madness to think anyone would share a suite of rooms with me. You're looking for someone to share, too."

Watson gaped at the man. "I – yes," he blurted before the little sense he had left that day could speak up. "Yes, I do need to share with someone, my hotel's – " 

"Excellent, get your things and come to 221 Baker Street." The man strode around Watson like a spring river whirling around a boulder. "Unit B." And out the door and gone. 

And Watson stood, blinking, once again aware of the roar and closeness of the crowd in which he stood – the crowd that had just vanished from his perception when he and the man had been together. 

The fog in his head was gone. Everything was sharp, clear, distinct. The dank, rank heat of the place no longer eddied sullenly but felt like sunshine. 

Clarity – 

221 Baker Street. Unit B. There he would speak once again with –

Watson huffed out a laugh, his first one of the year, when he realized that neither he nor the man even knew each other's names.


End file.
